


it's strange what desire will make foolish people do

by luce_incanto



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, flashback to Lisbon, humor I guess, rating might be a bit exaggerated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luce_incanto/pseuds/luce_incanto
Summary: Ermal Meta doesn’t do jealousy. Or does he?





	it's strange what desire will make foolish people do

**Author's Note:**

> something that grew out of random quotes from interviews, stories about eurovision week and my general love for metamoro x)  
> special thanks to the person, whom i tortured to get to read this first =*

Ermal Meta doesn’t do jealousy. It’s stupid, it’s pointless, it leaves a sour taste of limited freedom in his mouth. If you can’t let your partner do whatever he deems appropriate, if you can’t avoid suspicions crawling on your mind whenever she (or he, as he recently learned to add) spends time with someone else, what is even the point of being together? Trust is the cornerstone, without trust there’s nothing – at least that’s what he keeps repeating in his interviews, playing with words and smiling skeptically, as if this question doesn’t concern him personally. At all.

Oh, if only. He used to really believe all this crap, you know? He used to believe in a lot of things, but everything is so, so different now, in Lisbon.

It took just one person to change his point of view on lots of things. On his life, maybe.

And first of all, on this particular aspect of it, because Fabri (and of course it would be Fabrizio Moro, making him rethink his bold statements) _isn’t_ his partner. He is his friend, his soulmate (according to trash magazines and his own sometimes too dangerous thoughts), his comrade, his… well, brother, even though that word makes him cringe internally every single time. He doesn’t owe Ermal anything. They have a relationship, yes, somewhere in a hazy blur between work buddies and best friends, but however vague and uncertain this space might be, it still has borders clad in stone, “friends” written all over them. This relationship doesn’t limit them both, doesn’t prevent Fabrizio from taking to bed new girl each night, even though Ermal came to think of them as _their_ nights because of all the drinking and talking they’ve been recently doing.

But still. They are not a couple, he cannot count on mutual trust, he can only swallow down his jealousy and smile. Those thoughts and feelings are his and only _his_ problem. Logically, he doesn’t have any reasonable right to feel possessive, but feelings rarely follow logic, they run through his blood, poisoning his thoughts, too wild and unruly to control. Still, he tries, mostly by disregarding their presence altogether. What else can he do?

(Spoiler – he’s not good at ignoring his feelings.)

And don’t blame him, it’s really painfully hard, watching every woman with eyes smile at Fabrizio brightly, with a certain interested spark. As if she’s already planning their marriage in her head, selecting dishes, guests and a nice suit, not knowing yet that Fabrizio is even less inclined to wear something trendy than to marry. But that’s Fabri for you – a minute of pleasant talking and any girl would be smitten and flirting. It makes Ermal’s teeth grind, his fingers torment violently the sleeves of his shirt, his lips fold into insincere smile that might look like a grimace. It makes his words vicious and his tone so polite that it’s borderline offensive, but Fabri doesn’t notice. Or he never says so.

Language barrier’s Ermal’s blessing. All those beautiful girls chirp on their own language, which might as well be patented for he’s never heard anything like it, even at the university dorm parties - broken English creatively mixed with a bit of French, peppered by a healthy dose of Portuguese, and with a nice helping of Spanish. They confuse half the words, laugh too much and make their speech totally incomprehensible for anyone without ability to read minds or a languages degree. Ermal doesn’t have a degree, not exactly, thanks for reminding, but he can still communicate without too much effort and with negligible inaccuracies. Fabri… well, he’s usually lost after first two words, adorably flustered after a couple of minutes and then escapes as fast as he can, clinging to Ermal’s sleeve like a confused child in a room full of strange people. Sometimes he asks for help, for a translation and then Ermal has to smile nicely back at some pretty girl, has to pretend friendly and helpful. But as soon as their talk becomes _too_ pleasant, the blade of his smile immediately turns sharp and dangerous, and he drags unsuspicious Fabrizio away under some pretense as fast as he can, saying that he’s tired of acting as an interpreter and why didn’t he hire one, anyway? (It’s a blessing he didn’t.)

He manages, but still, it’s tiring. Fabri’s too damn sexy for his own good and most of the time Ermal doesn’t even want to criticize his clothing anymore. Why make him even more attractive for all those people? If they can’t see what’s inside without a trendy jacket or a nice shirt, they don’t deserve him anyway. (They don’t deserve him in any case, no one does, but that’s something he shouldn’t dwell on too much. It’s not his business.)

He came to Lisbon with a sole aim of sharing music and learning something new, but in a first couple of days it becomes quite clear that this event is about anything _but_ music. And he doesn’t exactly want to learn from anyone here, or talk to anyone except maybe Eleni, because her gazes stop on him more often than on Fabri for some reason he is unable to comprehend. And her company feels nice, after all, in all the multinational chaos it’s a pleasure to see a fellow Albanian. But at the end of the day he feels truly at home only with one person. The one who stands by him on the stage and behind it, the one who shares his silences at half past three at night, when tiredness finally starts taking over nervousness. The one who takes his hand with a faint smile and asks if they could go somewhere else, anywhere, just the two of them, and skip the party. The one who makes his heart miss a couple of beats with a single glance. Ermal too thinks that they are much better on their own, but sadly there are parties they cannot skip and people they cannot avoid.

Ermal might fool others saying that he’s just tired of being asked the same questions, of being dragged to interviews and public events, but he can’t fool himself. What he’s really tired of is sharing Fabri’s attention with someone else, not being the one to capture his gaze, being a bridge for communication between him and some girl he might’ve taken to bed if it wasn’t for one very, very inaccurate interpreter. (Ermal’s a horrible person, because he’s not even sorry about it.)

So yeah, let’s be honest, it’s not about music for him, too. It’s about Fabrizio.

Fabrizio, who looks more handsome than ever, his eyes shining with enthusiasm, Ermal’s jackets leaving his tattooed, muscled arms on display for anyone to observe (and drool over), and with a cute clueless expression on his face, appearing each time someone tries talking to him in English. Or German. Or Russian. It’s not like he can see the difference.  

Ermal feels a little pathetic watching him all the time, concentrating only on him to the point that sometimes he misses what the others are saying, but it’s so natural. He can’t help it. As he can’t help being jealous.

Jealousy is tiring. He’s always on guard, always annoyed, always nervous about this or that, and finally even Fabrizio notices and asks him if everything’s alright with a worried frown. Everything’s not alright, but Ermal still nods with a smile, drinks some champagne to prove it, then drinks some more to feel better, and then he doesn’t stop and that’s definitely a mistake.

 

His third glass of champagne is followed by a shot of some sweet liquor, which Fabri hands him distractedly, while talking on the phone to Libero with a much sweeter smile. He probably didn’t even mean for him to drink it, just wanted to free his hands to be able to run his fingers through his hair in a usual gesture, but Ermal for some reason drinks obediently. And then returns to his forth glass. And right at that moment Fabri closes his call, turns back to him to continue the conversation, so Ermal never notices that he’s a little bit drunker than he usually allows himself. (A lot.)

A gorgeous blonde winks at Fabri, but he misses it because he’s laughing at something Ermal said, and for any other friend Ermal would point it out, send him over, would at least joke about it, but not for Fabri, oh no. And he’s not even sorry, he changes his pose deliberately in order to completely obscure the view from his friend. He doesn’t need that blonde, right now he has to keep his focus on the competition, on other important things… but first of all – on Ermal.

He watches another woman approach with a self-assured smile of a hunter and a prowl of a tigress – he hates this type, hates their deliberate attractiveness, the way they think they can make anyone do whatever they want because of their pronounced, underlined femininity. Hates when their expectations turn out right so often, because men rarely take time to take a closer look, to understand they are being hunted. And this one is a nice example of her species, this one is sending dangerous vibes as she moves, and how can everybody _not see…_ (or is it just him, being afraid of losing something he doesn’t even have?). She’s so sure she always gets what she wants. But not today, oh no.

Ermal doesn’t have time to invent a reason to escape her course, though, because she moves quickly, like a snake, and she’s standing in front of them in a couple of moments, her eyes trained on Fabri, who’s annoyingly cheerful. What a bitch, thinks Ermal and fakes a smile. Judging by her face, she thinks something among the same lines about him.

“Good evening,” she says, showing off quite nice Italian and Ermal has to bite his tongue not to tell her that the accent is _horrible_. Fabri would look at him with eyes full of laughter and horror, as he always does, when he’s being particularly sincere, and they’d walk away together, the woman perplexed and forgotten, but…it’s not, actually. Not that horrible. And it wouldn’t even matter, because what matters is how Fabri’s eyes light up when he hears something he understands.

“Wow, you speak Italian,” he says, immediately focusing all the light of his attention on her. It’s like Ermal’s skin starts to itch the moment it happens, the moment his gaze shifts to someone else, someone more interesting and, let’s be honest here, someone much more attractive. He swears internally, sharp thorn of jealousy twisting in his heart, making him want to do something crazy, really crazy, like take Fabri by the arm and just snatch him away, somewhere more private, somewhere, where he wouldn’t have to fight for every bit of his attention. He _has_ to get it back, right now, and the raw intensity of this desire, combined with its total absurdness reminds him that he’s drunk too much, that this is dangerous thinking and he should just… be careful. Not to overstep any boundaries, not to make himself vulnerable, not to let Fabrizio understand exactly how much he’s in deep.

But that doesn’t mean he should share Fabri’s light and warmth with some random woman when he’s cold himself and will do _anything_ to deserve it. Will _she_? Or will she just find an easier target? Less beautiful inside and out, for sure, but she doesn’t care about the ‘inside’ part anyway.

He squints his eyes dangerously, ready to attack.

“Oh yes, this language always fascinated me,” she answers meanwhile, batting her lashes like a total idiot and giving an equally idiotic reason, but Fabri doesn’t seem to notice, he’s as excited as a kid with a new toy. “I am Maria, by the way, Slovenian delegation.”

“Fabrizio Moro,” says Fabri and kisses her hand, always a gentleman. Ermal doesn’t grind his teeth, no, it’s totally just the sound of him smiling. “And this is Ermal, he’s not usually that silent, I swear,” he smiles back at Ermal and Ermal feels like he can breathe again for one second, and then it’s all poisonous ice and jealousy in his veins again. This hot-n-cold fever will drive him crazy before the Eurovision week is over, before this evening is over, for sure. Why is he even doing this to himself? Why can’t he just accept that Fabri is not his and never will be? Ermal closes his eyes for a moment, trying to conceal the sharp ache that comes with such thoughts, the growing desperation and desire to run away somewhere far, very far. He’s not a kid with a crush, damn it, but alcohol’s always had the power to remove his inhibitions, strip away all control and make him vulnerable to his desires. _That’s_ why he doesn’t get drunk, ever.

“Oh, I’m just letting you do the talking for once, since you don’t need me to be your walking google translate right now,” he laughs insincerely after composing himself again. At least outwards. Inwards he’s still a mess and there isn’t a lot he can do to change it.

“You should let your friend go and play on his own once in a while,” Maria unsubtly hints, and he laughs, only clinging closer to Fabrizio at the pretense of seeking support. He’s drunk, right? That’s what drunk people do.

“No, no, he would just get lost here, and I’m not good enough to sing a duet alone,” Ermal’s still laughing, his gaze not so merry though. He can’t for the love of god invent a reason to make Fabrizio leave now, to return to being together in the middle of the chaos, just the two of them against the world. A tiny voice of what might’ve been conscience reminds him that it’s unfair to rob Fabrizio of an opportunity to actually talk to someone at this party, but he silences it. He’s selfish and a horrible person, yeah, already established, and thus he can simply succumb to the desire to keep Fabri to himself, to be the only center of his attention. If he’s going to hell for this… well, to hell with everything else. Cannot he have it just this once at least?

“Oh, but you are,” Fabri tears him away from an internal battle, his smile gentle and full of affection. And Ermal can’t stand that. He just can’t. The selfish possessiveness still chews on his soul, but now there’s also a painful guilty feeling, because Fabri trusts him… and he’s using him. He deceives him again and again with inaccurate translations, he finds excuses to stay close, he suffocates him with his presence at all times of the day. It’s a wonder he didn’t say anything, but that’s probably because he doesn’t know the full extent of his crimes. Or maybe because he’s always so gentle with his feelings, afraid to hurt him with a careless word or gesture.

Ermal has to stop, he knows that. He can do it, he can kill this snake within, this deeply unhappy and yearning part of himself, which doesn’t want to bend to rational reasons and just let go of something he cannot have. But he has to, doesn’t he? Fabrizio doesn’t have to be alone forever only because he’s got one very jealous friend, too greedy to share his attention with anyone. A pang of shame at that thought is, frankly, excessive, it almost brings him to tears, and it’s all the fault of the damn champagne he’s been drinking so carelessly.

Okay. He can do this. Ermal shakes away the sadness, takes his hand back, sliding it over Fabri’s elbow in a lasting caress, ready to leave with a heavy heart and let his friend chat with a beautiful woman, so beautiful that maybe he’ll even take her to his room later and Ermal will have to listen to her moans through the thin wall, biting his cigarette and hating his stupid heart, bursting from poisonous, dangerous jealousy, toxic enough to make him feel almost hatred. Maybe he should just go somewhere for a walk, that’d be better than writing something terribly heartbreaking yet again. His fans probably won’t survive another tearful album.

He has to find the strength to leave, now, because what right does he have to keep Fabri for himself if he doesn’t want him to? He makes the first step away and then hears the woman answer;

“Oh, I can take your place, you know.”

And now it’s a matter of a fucking principle.

“I mean, as an interpreter, for now,” she quickly amends, as if sensing that the wording wasn’t the best, but it’s already too late.

Ermal doesn’t see red, not exactly, more like he has a sudden surge of coldness through his heart, icy repulsiveness. This woman isn’t _taking his place,_ not as anybody and not for any amount of time. She’s nobody and she isn’t getting his Fabri. He’s so out of it, he doesn’t even stop to think about the _his_ in this dangerous thought.

“That’s not necessary,” he replies calmly, dangerously calm, and then takes a step back, practically gluing himself to Fabrizio under the pretense of someone walking too close to him, but doesn’t move away when that someone is long gone. And he doesn’t even have to do anything more, because Fabri himself wraps a hand around his waist, keeping him close and even closer, and Ermal feels warm pleasure blooming inside his chest at this gesture. He smiles at that woman, a victor’s smile and lets himself relax for a while and just enjoy the moment. Game’s over, she’s missed her chance, the one he offered her so generously, and Fabri clearly prefers _his_ company. Right?

Meanwhile she continues chatting with Fabrizio, not even paying attention to Ermal anymore. Like he doesn’t exist. Like he didn’t just plaster himself to Fabri just to make her understand without words that she cannot have him. Cannot, damn it, why isn’t she moving away?

He takes another drink from someone, distractedly, sips it slowly (it might be champagne or liquor again, he doesn’t really care), puts his head on Fabri’s shoulder, inhaling his closeness like oxygen. The woman is outside their bubble, she cannot touch them, not really. Fabri’s thumb caresses his side absently, his voice near his ear lulls him into a happy sleepy state, where everything is warm and nothing hurts. He doesn’t exactly know how much time has passed, but he can let the control slip a little, after all, he’s not alone and he trusts Fabri to take care of him. He’s content, feeling as peaceful as he hasn’t in quite a long time. Until. Until Fabrizio moves away slightly.

“Ermal? I’m gonna go with Maria, do you need something? You don’t look so well, maybe you should go to bed?”

…and the sleepiness rolls right off him. As does the feeling of peacefulness. What the fuck he means he’ll go with her? Ermal opens his mouth to ask, but nearly trips over Maria’s too pleasant smile, cutting his heart right open. Oh, they all damn well know what _that_ means.

“Well, actually, I should. Go to bed,” says Ermal, keeping his tone light and tired, but actually getting ready to fight, his chest bursting with too many confusing feelings. “But I don’t feel so well…” the masterful pause at the end of the sentence is left there to be filled and Fabri doesn’t disappoint him. As if he could.

“I’ll get you to your room first, then,” Fabrizio frowns, looking him over, checking his state, and Ermal loves that tone of his voice, not leaving any room for objection. But he still needs to keep up some pretenses, so he protests lightly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine by myself.”

Fabri smiles at the woman apologetically, Ermal bites back a smirk.

“Maria, I’m sorry, it seems I need to get this one,” Fabrizio pats his hair affectionately, “to bed first. Would you mind if we met later?”

Later. The word leaves an acrid taste in Ermal’s mouth and he is silently fuming while the woman tells Fabri her room number and promises to wait for him. Oh, no, darling. No-no-no, today you will fall asleep waiting in your cold bed, if it’s the last thing he does.

They leave like that, Ermal leaning slightly on Fabrizio, as if he really needed help. Maybe he does, because his mind is fuzzy right now, bubbling with thoughts and feelings like an unopened champagne bottle, and it’s kind of hard to keep track of them. In the elevator Fabri takes his face into his hands, inspects him, obviously a bit worried, touches his forehead. Ermal feels a pang of shame, but it’s too nice to feel cared for to feel guilty about it. He drinks up every single caress, greedy.

“I’m just tired, I think,” he smiles, answering the silent question. “Or maybe drank a bit too much.” At that he laughs himself, because his head really feels dangerously light and he rarely allows himself to lose control like that.

When they are standing this close he has to keep reminding himself not to look at Fabri’s lips inches away from his face. Not to think about how easy it would be to close the distance between them, get a little taste, make his dreams come true. Just half a step forward and their bodies will collide, warm mouth on his, gentle hands on his hips, or maybe not so gentle... damn it. Ermal pinches his wrist not to get too carried away, but that doesn’t really help, because Fabri is still too close and too beautiful even in the whitish lighting of the elevator, even with dark circles under his eyes. Oh, this caring expression on his face, a little worried frown, making his heart melt and flutter in his chest like a crazy bird in a box. Why does he have to be like this? Why does he have such power over him, to make him unbearably happy with a word, to break his heart with another?

Somewhere along their way Ermal gave him the key to his soul and never noticed.

“You should be more careful, I can’t look after you all the time,” Fabrizio mutters meanwhile and Ermal lets out a small laugh.

“I’m not a child, you don’t have to,” he says, grinning like an idiot, because Fabri already knows this. And he still makes it his responsibility, making Ermal’s heart beat a faster, grateful rhythm as an unfortunate side effect.

“Sometimes I think you are.”

The elevator ringing interrupts Ermal’s faux offended pout.

Fabri opens the door for him, taking the keys from his pocket without asking, while Ermal watches with a faint smile on his lips. Somewhere along the corridor he’s forgotten all about Maria and his jealousy and right now he’s just drunk and overwhelmingly in love with a friend, who guides him into the room carefully, not letting him trip over some unidentifiable stuff on the floor. And finally letting him fall on the bed.

“Okay?” Fabri asks and sits on the edge of the bed, gently caressing hair away from his eyes.

“Yeah,” Ermal breathes out and catches his hand when he tries to get away. “Where are you…”

Ah, now he remembers. That woman. His jealousy rises its ugly head again, burns his chest with poison, makes him close his fingers firmly, not letting go. Never letting go.

“I promised lovely lady a visit, do you not remember?” Fabri laughs at his childish gesture but doesn’t try to free his hand. He’s not as drunk and in any state of sobriety he is stronger than Ermal, but he still doesn’t.

“Nah, I didn’t listen,” Ermal lies easily and with a degree of surprise discovers that his thumb has started drawing patterns on the back of the hand he’s holding. “Don’t go.”

Fabri lets out a small surprised laugh and tags on his hand, but the fingers hold on tight.

“What, why? Are you not well, do I need to call a doctor?” The worried frown is back, he leans forward and Ermal smooths this frown out with the touch of his other hand, the one not busy holding him right there. Fabri’s too naïve and caring for his own good and Ermal shouldn’t use this goodness of his, shouldn’t be that selfish, but he wants Fabri here, with him, preferably even closer, _right the fuck now_ and he wants him desperately. This woman will find someone else to share the bed with, he, on the other hand, wants nobody else. And he hates sharing what’s his, anyway.

“Nooo, I’m fine,” he says, drawling the vowel like a child would. And then immediately regrets denying the illness, because how else can he talk Fabrizio into staying with him? But the words are already out of his mouth and he has to say something else instead, anything, anything else to make him stay. “Just… I want you to stay.” He pleads with his eyes, tugs on Fabri’s hands, his shoulders, makes him lean closer and closer, until he has to put his hands on both sides of his body not to crash him with his weight. Ermal enjoys this position a little too much, and in his state he doesn’t notice that it’s not exactly what he’d allow himself while clear-minded. In fact, had he been sober, he’d wish Fabri good luck upstairs and leave alone. But what good is sobriety? He’d never ask for what he really wants has he been sober… he’d never have those few stolen intimate moments. At least something for his yearning heart. Ermal has long ago learnt to collect those minutes and seconds, store them safely somewhere inside, cherish each of them. You never know if you’d get another one.

“And why is that?” Fabrizio makes the question sound playful, but the way he seeks something in his face is charged, his expression wrecked by some incomprehensible tension creeping up on him. Maybe he just hasn’t had enough alcohol, that’s why he’s so serious. Ermal caresses his face with the tips of his fingers and lets out a smile that might be kind of dopey and screaming ‘idiot in love’, but so what, it’s not like it’s the first time he looks at Fabri that way. He never notices anyway. And it’s hard to contain all this tenderness inside, hard to hide the enormity of his affection, the way he would love to never let him leave that room, that moment. He looks inside Fabri’s beautiful dark eyes, warm like melted honey, trying to convey all those feelings he cannot give voice to. Looks and looks, until the comprehension that Fabrizio’s waiting for an answer and he’s forgot the question already, dawns on him. But who’d blame him, when he has Fabri all over himself, close enough to breathe him in, almost like in the elevator? And again those images pop up in his restless mind – Fabri lowering himself on him, opening his mouth with slow, slow kisses, making him moan… Ermal licks his lips absent-mindedly, still lost in his daydreams, and tries not to be too obvious about it. He needs to concentrate on the conversation.

“You don’t need her, Fabri,” he whispers, because the silence becomes unbearable and he still doesn’t remember what they were even talking about, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? All that matters is that he can’t let Fabrizio go, allow him to choose some random blonde (or was it brunette?) over him, not this time, not if he can help it. It feels so good to just stare into his dark, lovely eyes and imagine. He’s quite good at imagining, anyway. Fabri’s laughter breaks the silence into a thousand little splinters, they cut into his skin, drawing blood, but he can’t see that, can he?

“Oh Ermal, don’t be so fucking clueless,” Fabrizio’s sudden crudeness for some reason takes his breath away, or maybe it’s the way he squints his eyes almost angry and leans a bit closer, obviously agitated. Ermal’d probably said something wrong, but he cannot for the love of god understand what. He cannot understand _anything,_ when Fabri’s looking at him like that. He doesn’t get to ask, though, because Fabrizio continues in a hoarse whisper, and when did they start whispering in the empty room? “I am not the one to explain you that sometimes a man _does_ need a woman, am I?”

Ermal’s cheeks lit up involuntarily, those words burning into his skin, down to the bones, because Fabri leans even _closer_ and now there is just a breath between them. The room suddenly becomes stifling hot instead of pleasantly warm and Ermal can’t fucking breathe, can’t think about anything except his desire, his need to eradicate the remaining space between them. He tries to wrap his mind around the phrase, he does, but his brain seems to focus only on the tone of the voice. His brain shuts down rapidly, emergency lights never turning on, leaving him in the dark. And in this frightening absence of any rational thought he definitely shouldn’t just run his mouth, shouldn’t, but –

“Oh, so only a _woman_ can satisfy your… need?” along with a suggestive smile is out of his mouth before he dares to even think something among the lines. And then Fabrizio leans back slightly, surprised, and the self-control finally kicks back in along with anxiety, because his words were heard loud and clear, no way to take them back now. Fear creeps in even through the veil of drunkenness. Damn it, Ermal’s always had zero-to-no filter, but he’d never let himself slip like that, so obviously inappropriate, so out of line. Shit. Shit, shit, shit – but it’s a joke. Fabri’ll definitely think it’s a joke.

Ermal doesn’t find strength in him to disguise it with a laugh, he still has trouble breathing from the way Fabri is staring at him intently. Silently burning him with his eyes. So _hot._ Ermal’s hand moves almost involuntarily, touching the bare skin of the open neckline, as a usual opened down almost to navel, making all those girls even more forthright with their unsubtle glances and him – more careful in avoiding the same glances. Or avoiding being caught, that is. Right now he isn’t’ looking only because he’s too caught up in this strange battle of gazes, his eyes locked with those of Fabrizio.

There’s fire in them and he’s not afraid to burn down to ashes. Maybe tomorrow he’ll regret taking the leap, hate himself for being forward about what he wants for once, but right now he’s almost shivering from the intensity of the moment and he won’t. Fucking. Let. Go.

“Why… are you offering?” Fabri finally lets out in a low, hoarse voice and it’s almost inaudible, but it still makes Ermal shiver. The tension is making the air shimmer between them, or maybe it’s just Ermal’s imagination and too much alcohol. His hand stops, lightly caressing the skin with tips of his fingers, the world stops for a couple of moments and they both definitely stop breathing.

“Why…” teases back Ermal, throwing to the wind all his caution and rational presence of mind, and trying not to think too vividly about exactly _what_ he’s offering. In harsh, realistic terms – himself on a platter, first a whore for attention, now a whore quite literally, but who’d blame him? Right now he’ll say anything, _anything_ to make him stay. “Why, yes, if you’re… mmm… up for it?” he bites his lips, hiding a smirk, and his daring hand slowly slips a little further south. Slowly, oh so slowly. This game is so exhilarating, he can’t think about anything, can only concentrate on harsh, broken inhales and Fabri’s warm skin under his touch. And he manages to reach the belt when his hand is rudely intercepted and suddenly both his wrists are pressed into the soft mattress. He lets out a small annoyed sigh.

“But, Fabri – ”

“Quiet,” says Fabri and then closes those unbearable millimeters between their faces in a swift motion, fingers still holding his wrists, keeping them in place, maybe a little too rough, but who the fuck cares? Ermal sure as hell doesn’t, he barely even notices, because finally, _finally_ he is being kissed, and it’s greedy, it’s unrelenting and mind-blowing. And he kisses back with the same feverish urgency, kisses those chapped lips, tasting of some expensive alcohol, kisses this mouth, starring in his fantasies almost since their first meeting, lets everything go and just loses himself in this perfect moment. Friends helping friends, a bit of misplaced lust or maybe something more – he doesn’t care right now why Fabrizio is doing this, why he hasn’t let him down gently and still gone to this woman, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t think, he enjoys the moment and trades one intoxicating kiss for another, and his head is now spinning more than from all the alcohol. The euphoria of the moment is better than orgasm – he’s won, Fabri’s chosen _him_ over everybody else, he’ll stay. Pleasure blooms like a beautiful flower in his chest, right where there was the black void of jealousy, eating him inside out. But no more, at least for now. Right now he’s got what he wanted and one thing Ermal’s always been good at is being grateful. He can show just how grateful he is, he’ll do anything, but…

His hands are still in captivity. And as much as grateful Ermal’s also greedy – he wants to touch, to make Fabri feel good and make him understand just how much affection he’s been harboring inside. Just how much he’d like to trace his skin with gentle kisses, caress every single millimeter of it, lavish him with attention and… okay, love. He wants it, wants it so badly, but his wrists are kept tight, so he stops with the kisses for a minute (it’s not easy) to ask.

“Let me go,” it sounds almost as a whine and Ermal closes his eyes with an embarrassed laugh.

“Ermal, you are drunk, and you don’t feel well,” says Fabrizio, gently caressing his wrists, which he clearly doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon. “I don’t want you to make decisions… you’ll regret tomorrow. And I sure as hell don’t want you to feel worse.” He still doesn’t resist the kisses, though. For some reason. It’s kind of strange, actually, especially the way they vary from gentle to violent in a heartbeat, confusing as hell.

“I feel great,” Ermal breathes out right into his lips and Fabri frowns. He should probably explain, but he can’t find in himself the inventiveness to compose a good lie. Doesn’t even want to try. “I might’ve pretended… just to get you away… from her.” It sounds so childish now that he says that out loud, sincere and vulnerable, but he’s too busy chasing the bare throat before him with his lips to feel embarrassed. It’s the truth, after all. The ugly heartbreaking truth, and maybe Fabri wouldn’t even want to talk to him tomorrow after this, wouldn’t want to taint their friendship.

But Fabrizio pulls away with an incredulous face and a smirk slowly paints itself on his reddened lips instead of an angry or disappointed grimace. Ermal swallows nervously, watching his eyes grow darker, feeling his grip on his wrists grow stronger. He likes it.

Fabri looks like a work of art in bed, slightly flustered and with kiss-swollen lips, but there’s something that would look even better – him, with this awful shirt off and on the floor.

“Ah, so you were… jealous?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ermal mutters immediately and tries to free his hands, but no such luck. The realization that Fabri isn’t angry about his schemes and little lies, about luring him into his bed with pretenses, instead, he sounds almost pleased, hits him suddenly and he can’t help the warm, warm happiness spreading in his chest.

It’s okay that he wants Fabri’s attention all the time. Fabri enjoys his attention too. (And jealousy is just another kind of attention, if you squint.)

“Admit it,” whispers Fabri right into his ear, bites his lobe and Ermal squeezes his eyes, moaning out loud. It’s better than any fantasy he had, even though he still cannot touch. “Admit it and I’ll let you go.”

And Ermal doesn’t really want to be let go. Not too far, anyway. But he does want to be able to touch all those horrible, horrible tattoos on those gorgeous arms, to trace them with his fingers, with his tongue, to continue his trip down south, to imprint himself onto his skin, _under_ his skin. To claim him as _his_ at least for one night.

“N-noo,” he says, anyway, with a delighted smile, because he likes the game, the chase, and he wants Fabri to _make_ him. Fabri bites his neck in punishment. Or maybe it doesn’t count as a punishment, because the purpose of the punishment is never to enjoy it so thoroughly. And Ermal will probably never say it out loud, but he _loves_ it, and the way he shudders betrays his true thoughts anyway.

If those bites turn to bruises tomorrow, he would touch them with reverent fingers, tracing the memories of Fabri’s teeth, his tongue, making it real. Not another feverish dream to wake from yearning. He doesn’t even try to stifle the sighs of pleasure anymore.

“Ye-es,” teases Fabrizio and Ermal swallows a smile; as always, he has perfectly understood the rules of this game. He climbs onto the bed fully, finally lowering himself, strategically placing a thigh between those of Ermal. Right against his hardness, making him choke on a moan and jerk forward. “Just admit it,” he whispers before another kiss, wet, deep, almost obscene. “You know you were, Ermal,” a thigh moves slowly, but what makes him moan almost embarrassingly high is Fabri’s voice in his ear, the commanding, low tone he was imagining in his head forever while getting off in the hotel showers. Now this voice, accompanied with hot breath against his skin, slow glide of pressure and the _words_ themselves, drive him the best kind of crazy. The hands on his wrists squeeze a little tighter, as if to remind him. “So jealous, you’d even offer yourself up like this,” now _that_ is a low blow. But it’s kind of hard to be offended when every single syllable gets right through his skin into his blood, making it boil from sensational overload, making him desperate, making the sweet, sweet surrender much closer.

“Never took you for a type to be crude in bed, Fabri,” he whispers, leaning into every single touch.

“Always took you for a type to like crudeness in bed, Ermal,” he gets back and his laugh merges with an almost desperate high whine, when Fabrizio lets him open his legs and settles in between, offering something much better than the thigh to grind onto.

And the fact that Fabri’s got him all figured out, makes Ermal’s head spin even faster.

“Yes,” slips from his mouth easily and yeah, he did it just to see Fabri’s surprised face. “Yes, I was jealous.”

Hands slide down slowly from his wrists, letting them free, and the kiss turns tender, but Ermal doesn’t lose any time – in a heartbeat he’s turning them over on a wide bed and lands on Fabri, even more surprised now. He even opens his mouth to ask, but it’s not his turn to speak now and Ermal shuts him up with a kiss.

“I am always jealous,” he confesses in an almost angry hiss against his lips, bites the bottom one, but not enough to draw blood, only enough to hear a startled moan. “They are always looking,” Ermal moves down to finally, finally kiss the cross tattoo, lick the path of the black ink, bite sharply into the line to see Fabri shudder. His hands, in Ermal’s hair now, pull him up, encourage to continue speaking. And Ermal speaks. He rarely knows how to stop himself from speaking, but now he doesn’t have to and his mouth, when not busy with kisses, just goes on and on and on about jealousy, that burns his veins like acid, about fucking Maria, who looked at what was his like it was her evening meal (and at that Fabri throws his head back and laughs, because his, seriously? and gets an almost bruising kiss for this, because yes, fucking _his_ ), about the way he couldn’t, couldn’t let Fabri go to her, to leave him here with head light from alcohol and all those images in it…

“What images?” asks Fabri, when Ermal’s finally done with his chest and returns to his lips, like a man in desert, thirsty for a gulp of sweet water. Fabrizio caresses his hair gently, opening his mouth, Ermal leans in, smiling, and the sun comes out somewhere not in Milan.

“Of you doing exactly that. With me, not her. There’s not a lot of moments in my life when I dreamt to be in a woman’s place… but I’m very good at imagining.”

“I lied, too,” says Fabri, undoing Ermal’s fly, pushing his pants down and off his legs. Ermal looks from under his lashes and tries to find his breath. His arms almost give up, but Fabri needs some space to continue what he’s doing, so he tries not to fall down on him.

“Yes?”

“I never wanted to go to her room,” Fabrizio takes him into his hand, caresses slowly, slowly, and Ermal thinks he’s about to cry when the movement finally quickens. “Never, do you believe it? I don’t like blondes, anyway. That’s your type. You know what was I going to do instead?” he slows down again, catches Ermal’s desperate whine with his mouth and spends some time peppering it with small kisses. As if he’s fucking got all the time in the world. Ermal’s losing the thread of this conversation in those caresses, starts whispering something else entirely, something unintelligible, but sounding a lot like begging. Fabri continues as unhurried as before and only his tell-tale hoarse voice and not so smooth movements betray his own excitement. ”I’ll tell you what,” he whispers against Ermal’s skin, “I was going to go to my own room”, he bites into Ermal’s neck, earning a high moan, “close the door,” he licks his lips, pauses as if preparing for a big reveal, “and touch myself to the memory of my best friend, clinging to me like he can’t stand on his own. Standing so close I could feel his breath on my skin.”

“Oh,” only manages Ermal and then Fabri rotates his hand, whispering right into his ear;

“Can you imagine _that_?”

And then he’s a goner.

Because the image of Fabrizio on his bed, his hand in his pants, writhing quietly and coming with his name on those beautiful lips? Something he didn’t ever think possible. Something unbearably hot, but not as hot as Fabri touching him while whispering into his ear all kinds of things, letting him down gently from an orgasmic high.

“Oh my fucking god, Fabri” he breathes out and kisses him hard, finally letting himself fall down on him. And then Fabri embraces him and caresses his hair, and Ermal only thinks that he’ll just wait a couple of seconds to let his mad heartbeat slow down and then he’ll return the favor, he’ll take him into his mouth, make him moan and writhe, and come so hard he’ll see the stars… in a couple of seconds. But he’s still drunk, too drunk for his own good, so don’t blame him for falling asleep in exactly three seconds.

Fabri doesn’t. He only laughs, hiding his face in Ermal’s curls, breathing him in and smiling, and then puts a hand in his boxers, exactly as planned. Only now instead of drunk clinging he can think about Ermal’s fiery gazes at anyone who would dare to look at him, about the way he brought him closer possessively earlier in the evening, about the way he whispered, while breaking down, that he _wants him only for himself, damn it._ About his face, beautiful, beautiful face, when he was coming, lips bent with a sweet torture. He comes embarrassingly quickly, letting himself go, manages to clean up them both as a responsible adult should, takes the boots off and draws Ermal closer, kissing his curls goodnight. And sleeps well for the first time in Lisbon.   

 

In the morning Fabrizio would be telling anyone who listens a funny story about Ermal, who didn’t let him talk to some Slovenian girl, and Ermal would just smile brightly and promise to make it up to him.

This time he’ll even keep the promise.

**Author's Note:**

> if you notice any mistakes, let me know =3


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